


When Joan Met Sally

by mnemosyne



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Female Character of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sally Donovan fails to spend Christmas in New York alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Joan Met Sally

Starbucks was crowded and loud; grasping fingers, harsh tones and a pungent miscellany of bodily odours were clawing their way into Joan's personal space. Though only fourth in the queue, she backtracked, pushing open the glass doors and taking a welcome gasp of whatever passed for clean air in the city. Squaring her shoulders against the cold and pulling her coat closer around her, she began her search again, and tried to ignore the pain in her ungloved hand. There were a few hours today, a few hours that were hers alone, worked into her schedule and his, and she refused to waste part of them in that circle of hell.

By the time she'd found an alternative source of coffee, the snow was falling heavily and she could feel her cheeks blistering red with cold. This place was busy too, but she managed to squeeze herself into a cubicle with her latte and a newspaper on her iPad and dared anyone else to sit next to her with an icy stare and a healthy expansion of where she considered her bubble to stop.

It worked for about fifteen minutes.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” a voice intruded, English accent and a vague hint of embarrassment behind the vowels, “but would you mind if I shared your table?”

The woman was looking at her, harried and still dripping wet. A grey woollen coat hung heavily off her arms and Joan couldn't muster the ability to turn her down. Instead she pushed her cup to one side, making space that was almost enough for the damp of the woman's coat not to chill her legs.

“ _Thank you_.” The woman tumbled into her chair with a groan, leaning her head against the red plastic. “I was terrified that you were going to be awful and unyielding and then I remembered that we're not in London.”

Joan raised her eyebrow.

“We're very jealous about our leg room in London.”

“We're quite possessive of it in Brooklyn,” Joan told her, “but you look a little-”

“Drowned rat-like?”

“I was going to say 'Cold'.”

The woman grinned at her and started peeling off layers of clothing; hat, gloves, scarf, all left in a haphazard pile over her coat, which she pushed as far into the corner as she could. When she finally picked up her steaming coffee, Joan could almost feel the bliss radiating from her in waves.

“Needed that?”

“You have no idea,” the woman stretched, “'Go to New York for Christmas', they told me. It'll be glittering and romantic and _just_ like in all the films.”

“It's cold and slushy.”

A laugh.

“And no Nickie Ferrante anywhere in sight.” The woman rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. Black, Joan saw, and spilling slightly down the rim. “I'm sorry,” she added, “you came in here to read in peace and I'm interrupting.”

“It's ok,” Joan told her, and a little part of her started in surprise that she meant it. “I've read the same sentence twenty times, I'm pretty much done with it.”

“Don't read the news,” the woman advised, “it's nearly Christmas and that's depressing enough on its own without having to hear about everyone else's misery.”

“It's for work,” Joan said, which was half true. It had been the outcome of one of the last cases Sherlock – that _she_ and Sherlock – had worked on; she'd started reading to see if the record of the sentencing would push the memory of blood and torn clothing from her mind.

“Must be some job,” the woman said, “if it gives you a face like that.”

Joan thought back to a young girl with a blue garnet ring and a man whose blood billowed from half a dozen knife wounds. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. She shook her head, trying to shake the smell, the image, the emotion of the case, and knowing as she did that it would be futile. But the feeling would pass, she knew that. It always did, and the space left behind would fill with purpose. “What do you do?”

“As it stands, I'm a police officer,” she tilted her cup, inspecting the cracks in the glaze, “I love my job.”

“Is that true?”

The woman smiled, soft and fond. “Yes, actually. You know at school, when they ask you what you want to be, and you say fireman or footballer or princess? I put my right up hand up and told Mrs. Magathy that I wanted to be a detective.”

“How old were you?”

“Six? Seven? Something like that.”

“I'm not sure I would have even known what a detective was at that age.”

“Oh, I had all the paraphernalia. Those little ringbinders marked 'Top Secret'? And puzzles. I loved puzzles. I couldn't think of anything better than to grow up and get paid to solve puzzles all day.” She sighed. “Of course, it now seems to be more paperwork than puzzles.”

“Tell me about it. Forms upon forms and pens that run out halfway through a patient's name.”

“You're a doctor?”

“I was,” Joan admitted, “but I left.”

If the Englishwoman had any more questions, she did not ask them; Joan didn't know if she was grateful for that. They sat there in silence for a while, comfortable and unfocused. After some time, Joan looked at her cup, the last remnants of her coffee swirled in the bottom and she tilted it towards herself, not in any particular hurry to leave. The coffee shop was emptying out, tables littered with the remnants of cake crumbs and sandwich wrappers and a harried looking teenager squeezed between chairs, a plastic box in her arms, precarious stacks of coffee cups wobbling but never falling.

“I'd miss the force if I left.”

“I'm sorry?” Joan tore her eyes away from the scene, and back to the other woman. She had a distant look on her face, and Joan fancied that she could see the shadows of a movie playing behind her eyes.

“The force. I'd miss it if I left. I've invested too much time in it, too much time and too much life. I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't a detective.”

“It's funny what you do when it actually comes up.”

“I suppose you're right.” The woman frowned, looking over as a light through the window played on her face. “I'd hope it was by my own choice too.”

“How hypothetically are we talking here?” Joan held up her hands when the woman shot her a look, wary, the look of a woman too used to her words unheard. “Hey, I'm a stranger,” Joan reminded her, “I'm a stranger in a city halfway across the world from yours.”

“Not quite.”

“Point stands. I'm nobody to you and nobody to whoever knows you. I don't even know your name.” Joan leaned back, absently pushed her empty coffee cup to one side, challenging. “What have you got to lose?”

“Isn't that always the question,” the woman said, rueful. “Turns out, it's a lot more than you'd think. Even when you're right.” Forearms resting against the scratched wood of the table, her long fingers drummed against the side of her own cup and Joan could see that it too was empty. She wondered how long it had been that they had been sitting there without purpose and glanced at the staff behind the counter. A young man with platinum hair and oversized glasses winked at her and she turned back to her companion rapidly.

“What were you right about?”

The woman paused, pursed her lips and let out a short huff of breath. Her face broke into a grin and she shook her head.

“You know? _Everything_ ,” she confided. “Pretty much. Ever since Mrs Magathy's year. It's a burden.”

Joan laughed at the earnest face in front of her, didn't know how she couldn't and at the same time, knew that she shouldn't be. But the woman didn't seem to mind, merely smiling that same broad smile. On impulse, Joan leaned in, rested her hand on top of the woman's wrist. Her skin was warm beneath her touch and she made no effort to move away.

“Look,” she said, “you're a newcomer to my town. You want to grab dinner?”

The woman's eyes glittered and her lips parted, as if she was about to speak, but she closed them again after a few seconds.

“I thought your appeal,” she said after a moment, “was that you were a stranger?”

Joan shrugged. “I'll still be a stranger after a plateload of carbs.” But the woman shook her head and regarded her steadily. A small smile played on the corners of her mouth.

“I'm Sally,” she said, “and actually, I think I'd quite like a friend.”


End file.
